About Me

Known principally for his weekly political columns and his commentaries on radio and television, Chris Trotter has spent most of his adult life either engaging in or writing about politics. He was the founding editor of The New Zealand Political Review (1992-2005) and in 2007 authored No Left Turn, a political history of New Zealand. Living in Auckland with his wife and daughter, Chris describes himself as an “Old New Zealander” – i.e. someone who remembers what the country was like before Rogernomics. He has created this blog as an archive for his published work and an outlet for his more elegiac musings. It takes its name from Bowalley Road, which runs past the North Otago farm where he spent the first nine years of his life. Enjoy.

Bowalley Road Rules

The blogosphere tends to be a very noisy, and all-too-often a very abusive, place. I intend Bowalley Road to be a much quieter, and certainly a more respectful, place.So, if you wish your comments to survive the moderation process, you will have to follow the Bowalley Road Rules.These are based on two very simple principles:Courtesy and Respect.Comments which are defamatory, vituperative, snide or hurtful will be removed, and the commentators responsible permanently banned.Anonymous comments will not be published. Real names are preferred. If this is not possible, however, commentators are asked to use a consistent pseudonym.Comments which are thoughtful, witty, creative and stimulating will be most welcome, becoming a permanent part of the Bowalley Road discourse.However, I do add this warning. If the blog seems in danger of being over-run by the usual far-Right suspects, I reserve the right to simply disable the Comments function, and will keep it that way until the perpetrators find somewhere more appropriate to vent their collective spleen.

Followers

Monday, 24 December 2012

Remembering The Night: Christmas Story 2012

A Night To Remember:A grand story it was, and with the Galilean now preaching up and down the Jordan Valley, a story that was being re-told more often.

THE SUN WENT DOWN as it always did. Red and gold gave way to
indigo and the white glitter of stars. Benjamin waited, as he always did, for
the prosody of daylight to make way for the poetry of night – and memory.

Benjamin’s young companion, Joel, waited with him. Wondering
if the older man would recite again his tale of magic and mystery.

A grand story it was, and with the Galilean now preaching up
and down the Jordan Valley, a story that was being re-told more often – and not
only by Benjamin.

It was about a king. A saviour born in a stable. The
Messiah, no less: announced by angels; attended by Parthian wizards; hunted
high and low by Herod; and welcomed into this world by shepherds. Shepherds
like Benjamin – just a boy at the time.

It was a story that glowed with hope … and danger. Because
the Romans crucified anyone they caught telling tales of saviours serving
higher powers. The Jews already had a king, and he answered to just one higher
power – the Emperor. The ruler of the universe lived in Rome – not Jerusalem.

And Rome’s yoke was a heavy one. Taxes – always more and
more to pay. And woe betide the man who paid them late. Because when the Romans
came collecting they always liked to leave something behind. Something to
remember them by. A farmer’s body pierced by the points of their spears. A
son’s face laid open by the studded soles of their sandals. A daughter’s belly
swelling with the bastard child of some lecherous legionary.

Joel still carries the scars, and dreams of the day when he
can repay the Romans for their kindnesses. It’s why he’s so fond of Benjamin’s
tale. For when the Messiah comes and the prophecies are fulfilled Rome’s might
will be as dust in the wind. The Saviour shall drive all before him. His sword
will drip with the blood of the oppressor. And Israel will be free.

It’s why he still has such doubts of the Galilean: this
carpenter’s son from Nazareth; this Jesus. It’s all very well to tell people
that the Kingdom of God is at hand. But David’s kingdom is not about to be
restored by a handful of farmers and fishermen. Rome’s legions will not be
defeated by turning the other cheek.

“Describe it to me again, Benjamin. Tell me again of the
Messiah’s birth.”

The old shepherd smiles into the darkness.

“Light and dark, Joel. Grandeur and humility. For a moment
the veil that separates the material from the immaterial was lifted. We, the
mortal creatures of time, beheld immortality: caught a glimpse of the eternal.”

“But it was a king’s birth, Benjamin. There was gold and
frankincense and myrrh. Wise men from the East. You were the first to greet the
Messiah: the saviour; the redeemer of Israel. You saw him.”

“I saw a mewling child still smeared with his mother’s
blood. I saw three tired men: travel-stained and weeping. The air was
filled with the stench of mortality, Joel. Kings are the children of kings, my
young friend. But this child, this Jesus, was the Son of Man.”

“But he shall be mighty, Benjamin. He shall lead armies. He
shall destroy Rome!”

The old shepherd looked up into the night sky: recalling the
star’s brilliance; the angels’ shout; the pain of knowing.

“There is a kingdom greater than Israel’s, Joel. An empire
larger than Rome’s. And he, the Son of Man, the blood-smeared child wrapped not
in purple silk, but in the rough swaddling-cloth of a peasant girl, will lead
us there.

“You look for a warrior-king. A man of might upon a white
horse. But all Death’s horses are pale, Joel, and the Devil rides them.

“‘Peace on Earth’, the angels said. ‘Good will toward men’.
The Galilean says it still.”

“And the Romans will kill him for it, Benjamin.”

“Yes, Joel. But he will not die.”

This short story was
first published in The Dominion Post,
The Waikato Times, The Taranaki
Daily News, The Timaru Herald, The Otago Daily Times and The Greymouth Star of Friday, 21 December 2012.

Beauty as always Chris. And funny, innit, how the inherent contradiction of toryana is often manifest at this time of year in comments such as that from the oh-so-aptly-named Dick Christie - just before he celebrates Christmas in his own way, like the other third he mentions. Hoist by their own grasping petards, they unwittingly perpetuate - almost enforce - applied Christianity, thus hastening the demise of their own discredited god, individual Greed.

The canniest and most cynical among them recognise this and emphasise the "New year" above Love; then simply desert to Hawaii - no loss at all, in fact a welcome respite, to the mass of fair-minded optimists that share these shores and celebrate today.

All power, peace and joy to you and your whanau Chris; take your richly-deserved reward and our enduring gratitude.

“There is a kingdom greater than Israel’s, Joel. An empire larger than Rome’s. And he, the Son of Man, the blood-smeared child wrapped not in purple silk, but in the rough swaddling-cloth of a peasant girl, will lead us there."

I don't think so.

Chris, fair dinkum, do you really sign up for this soppy sentimental shite?

Thanks ak.In between your snide ad homs you at least make one novel claim: that atheism is somehow a Tory trait.Chris, thanks but no thanks for the Christmas wishes, I would rather prefer you simply applied your own comment guidelines even-handedly, especially from those throwing ad homs from behind aliases. I thoroughly enjoy the political analysis in here, but could do without the sky-daddy stuff, but I realise it's your blog and was just pointing out the obvious - that not everybody buys into the big fantasy.